Duality
by Shotzette
Summary: Do we really know the darkest and most perverse secrets of those closest to us?


Duality  
By Shotzette  
Rated R  
  
This is a work of fanfiction that was written for entertainment purposes only. It is not meant to infringe upon copyrights held by Paramount, ABC,  
or any other entity, real or imagined.  
  
I don't know why I do it. Keep going back for more, I mean.  
  
I don't think he's handsome, he's not even attractive. When I'm my normal self, his physical appearance makes me all but gag.  
  
However...  
  
When I'm in one of my rare moods, you know, THE mood, he's all but irresistable.  
  
He and I have developed our own code. Try as we may to discourage it, he and his idiotic creep of a roommate always try to sit with me at lunch. It's pathetic. I've turned them down, publicly at least, every time, but those boys keep trying. Leering at me while they devour some sort of disgusting lunch, like they can see right through my brewery smock.  
  
Like he hasn't memorized my nude body with his eyes and his hands.  
  
I merely slip the word "purple" into the conversation, and he knows he's going to be a very lucky man in an hour. I have to keep the code word simple, as to not confuse him. He's not very bright. Fortunately, I can engage in clever conversation with others. What I want him for, mostly remains wordless.  
  
I actually prefer it that way.  
  
I go back to the assembly line, he goes back to the trucks. An hour later, I complain to my supervisor about a headache and ask to take a short break while I run down to the infirmary for aspirin.  
  
At the same time, he's volunteering to take one of the trucks to the all but deserted washing station at the far end of the truckyard.  
  
I never realized how much space there is in the cab of an eighteen wheeler.  
  
I also never realized how easy it is to defile an act of so called "love". I can't imagine doing the nasty things I do with him to someone I actually cared about. Or someone I wanted to respect me.  
  
Fortunately, caring and respect have little to do with what we share. It's more like the expunging of a base, animalistic need. The act of lust, so condemned during the Mass I attended as a child, and still attend regularly as an adult, is addictive. The more I try to sate the craving, the hungrier I become. Why do I desire these wrong feelings so much?  
  
I usually hate him afterwards, and myself. I carry his scent on my for the rest of the day, the stench of his hair gel and essence enveloping me and threatening to let the world in on my dirty little secret. It's all I can do to wait for the five o'clock whistle before dashing home to take a long, hot, soapy shower.  
  
That's how we always do it. Sweating and straining, we fuck mindlessly like a couple of animals on the filthy truck seat. The windows are always rolled up, both in the frigid Milwaukee winter, and the broiling summer heat, so no one can hear our uninteligible cries as we reach our breaking points.  
  
Anything goes during that half hour, and unspoken rule we both knew from the get go. We do things to one another that violate natural law, say filthy things to each other that neither one of us (not even him) would say to another human being.  
  
We both have roomates, so we can never take care of our disgusting needs at home. Besides, his apartment is too disgusting. Mine's not even an option. I don't think I could ever sleep in my "virginal" little bed again, if I had to remember his lecherous expression every time I lay down.  
  
Yet, in the privacy of my locked bathroom, I love to run my fingers over the reddish marks he's left on my skin. It's a twisted point of ownership for him, branding me with hickeys and bite marks on the intimate places I've never ever let poor Carmine Ragusa see.  
  
No one else knows, and they never will. I made that quite clear to him from the start. He knows if he blabs, tells one, single, solitary soul, it's over. After I deny to one and all, of course. And really, no one ever would believe that I would ever do such perverted things with him. Not me, Shirley "Wait for the Wedding Night" Feeney, that's for sure.  
  
So for now, we have our sporadic rendevous. We'll never date, that's for sure. Unlike Carmine, I know there is no chance that he will turn out to be my Mr. Right.  
  
Considering he's murmured Laverne's name in my ear a few times when he's come, I know he harbors no romantic feelings for me either.  
  
We have nothing in common, thank God, except for knowing that we mean nothing to one another. I really wish he wasn't naive enough to sometimes consider me a friend, but the guilt motivates me to be there for him when he needs me. I almost consider it payment for our rough and lusty tumbles.  
  
So far, our little arrangement is working out. He gets the release that all men need, and that no woman would ever give him, unless he paid her. I get all of those sick and dark desires out of my system, with my reputation intact. I won't become one of those girls that my brothers and father used to discuss in whispers when they were on shoreleave. Those girls who would do all those unnatural things with them, only to be gossipped about later. The girls they got into trouble, only to vanish the next day.  
  
I sometimes wonder how many Feeneys are actually out there. Perhaps I have half-siblings, nieces, and nephews scattered through ports of call throughout the world?  
  
I'm so afraid Laverne will end up being one of those girls. Used and abandoned, irrevocably soiled to the point that a decent man wouldn't ever marry her. She's so careless with who she's seen with, and seemingly heedless about the gossip concerning her virtue.  
  
Ironically, she's still a good girl, although I know that fact would surprise people.  
  
There are two types of girls in the world. It's always been that way, and it will always be that way.  
  
I just have everyone fooled, that's all.  
  
I WILL have the big church wedding. I will wear a white dress, and no one will snicker or look at my belly and smirk that I'll be a mother in six months.  
  
HE might laugh, but there's no way he would ever be invited. I'd like to think that by that time, Lenny Kosnoski will be nothing more than a dirty little memory.  
  
I will marry my Mr. Right, or Dr. Right, I should say. We will purchase a lovely two story colonial in the suburbs where we will live with our three beautiful children and our collie named Dave. I will perform my wifley duties cheerfully, but not too enthusiastically.  
  
With my husband, I must always be a lady.  
  
FIN 


End file.
